The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

struck an attitude and declaimed:
    â€œT O S YLVIA
    â€œYou are the fairest star that ever shone,
    Bar none.
    I really think you are
    Quite like a star,
    Because a star looks bright
    At night,
    And you
    Look stunning in the evening too.
    So, Sylvia, marry me and be a darling,
    Don’t marry Marling.
    â€œYou see, Jane Ann, it’s a proposal. That’s my sixth, if I count Jimmy Brown when I was thirteen, which, I suppose, isn’t really fair.”
    â€œSylvia darling,” said Miss Coverdale, “you know I don’t like finding fault with you, but I don’t really—no, I mean, do you really—no, I don’t seem to be able to express just what I do mean—but is it, is it really quite delicate to talk like that?”
    Sylvia had taken up her hand-glass and was deepening the red of her mouth a little. She looked up, brilliant with mischief.
    â€œMy blessed Jane Ann, when I’m married I shall furnish a darling little ark for you to live in, and then you’ll feel really at home. I simply love people falling in love with me,” she added, “and I do call it a triumph to have got a poem out of Peter.”
    On Sunday, Peter suffered the pangs of neglect. Sylvia and Cyril had had a rapprochement following upon a violent scene. They wandered about together, looking sentimental and making other people feel de trop .
    Peter sat on the terrace all the afternoon. When Sylvia and Cyril were in sight he stared at them. When they were not in sight he stared into vacancy. After tea he went for a walk. On the way he passed Sylvia and Cyril in a boat, and received the impression that Cyril was reciting an ardent love poem. Sylvia was actually blushing. On the way home he walked into Sylvia and Cyril at a stile. They were leaning against it, very close together, and, just as Peter came up, Cyril kissed Sylvia, and Sylvia let him do it. Peter crashed past them, and went home with all the demons of jealousy tearing him.
    That evening things came to a head. Afterwards Miss Coverdale was never quite sure what had happened. It was a most lovely evening, and Sylvia said that she wanted to walk in the rose garden and feel romantic. She invited Peter to escort her there, and Peter, who had not uttered a single word for at least two hours, got up and stalked away beside her in total silence.
    About half an hour later Sylvia came back to the house alone. She looked very white, and said she was going to bed. Peter did not return. When the dinner bell rang he was still absent. Miss Coverdale and Cyril Marling dined tête-â-tête , and both seemed to be relieved when the meal was over. Cyril vanished almost immediately, and at ten Miss Coverdale was just thinking of going to her room when the door was violently wrenched open, and in rushed Sylvia in her dressing-gown. Her face was ashy, and in her hands she grasped a crumpled paper.
    â€œJane Ann,” she cried, “Oh, Jane Ann!” and dropped on her knees at Miss Coverdale’s side. “What shall I do, what shall I do, what shall I do ?”
    She thrust the paper into the old lady’s trembling hands and began to sob miserably. Miss Coverdale straightened the paper out and read, in Peter’s untidy hand, his second and last effort at Poetry:
    â€œI cannot bear it when you smile
    At other people on a stile.
    I cannot bear it when you float
    With other people in a boat.
    The pains of love have riven me,
    The pains of love have driven me
    To do what many a broken-hearted
    Lover has done when he is parted
    From the being he adores in vain
    And fears he’ll never see again.
    My love for you is past all bearing.
    Perhaps you’ll sometimes think of Peter Waring.”
    â€œNo!” said Miss Coverdale, in a sharp, high voice that was not quite a scream. “Oh no, no! It’s not possible !”
    Sylvia’s teeth were chattering.
    â€œWe quarrelled,” she whispered. “I said dreadful things. I